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somewhat a story about one Ulysses, who, in times gone by, was a very famous and shrewd captain. He set out to wage war with the barbarians, and his wife, whose name was Penelope, remained at home with his son Telemachus. Ulysses was absent for twenty long years, and when he returned home he found fifty suitors who were all courting his beautiful wife Penelope. Do you see, fifty suitors, one for every year of Penelope’s age, for she must have been well-nigh fifty years old when Ulysses returned, and yet she was still beautiful, and men were gallanting about her. Why should not the same thing happen to you, as you are scarcely forty-eight? And who knows whether the wife of Ulysses was as beautiful and good as you? I am sure she was not. For it seems to me you are the dearest and best little woman, and look precisely as you did twenty years ago, when you were foolish enough to marry that rough old soldier Blucher, who was already fifty years of age.”

“Well, that was not so very foolish,” said Madame von Blucher, smiling; “on the contrary, it was very well done, and but for those abominable playing-cards, nothing could be better.”

“Ah, the shrewd little general has, by an adroit movement, brought us back to the old battle-ground,” exclaimed Blucher. “We have arrived again at last night’s faro! Now, tell me first of all–did I guess right? Were you not angry with me because I returned late?”

“Yes,” said his wife, “that was the reason.”

“Hurrah! Just as I thought!” shouted Blucher, jubilantly. “Now, quick, pay me for my correct guess! You know, you were to give me a kiss!–a kiss such as you used to give me twenty years ago!” He encircled his wife with his arms, and pressed a long and tender kiss on her lips.

“Well, are you pacified now?” he then asked. “I see in your eyes that you are, and now, come, I will tell you all that occurred last night. You see the money is gone, and what matters it! Money is destined to be spent; that is what the good Lord gave it to us for, and men made it round that it might roll away more rapidly. If it were to remain, they would have made it square, when the fingers could hold it better. And, then, why should I hold it? We have enough–more than enough; our two daughters are married to rich men; our two sons are provided for; our estate at Kunzendorf will not roll away, for it is not round and brings us lots of money, and I am sure there will be a day when I shall win very large sums. I do not mean at the gaming-table, Amelia, but on the battle-field. I shall reconquer to the king his cities and provinces. I shall take from Bonaparte all that he has stolen from Prussia; I–“

“You intended to tell me what occurred last night,” interrupted his wife, who heard him, to her dismay, beginning again the philippie against Napoleon which he had repeated to her at least a hundred times.

“Yes, that is true,” said Blucher, breathing deeply, “I wished to tell you about Major von Leesten. At the ‘Ressource’ I met yesterday in the afternoon an old friend of his, who told me how sad and unhappy Leesten was. His eldest daughter is betrothed to a young country gentleman: the two young folks would like to marry, but they have no money. If the young man had only a thousand dollars, he might rent an estate in this vicinity; but, in order to do so, he must give a thousand dollars security, and he is not possessed of that sum. Leesten’s friend told me all this, and also how disheartened Leesten was. He said he had gone to all sorts of usurers, but no one would lend him any thing, because he could not furnish security, for he has nothing but his pension.”

“Poor man! And could not his friends collect the amount and give it to him?”

“His friends have not any thing either! Who has any thing? Every one is poor since the accursed French are in the country, and Bonaparte- -“

“You forget again your story of Major von Leesten, my friend.”

“Oh, yes. His friends have not any thing either, and even if they had, Leesten would not accept presents. No, believe me, Amelia, when the poor are exceedingly proud, they would die of hunger sooner than accept alms at the hands of a good friend, or ask him for a slice of bread and butter. I know all about it, for I was poor, too, and starved when my pay was spent. And Leesten is proud also; alms and presents he would not accept, or if he did, for the sake of his daughter, his heart would burst with grief. That was what his friend told me; I pitied him, and thought I should like to call on the dear major and shake hands with him, that he might feel that I like him, and that he has friends, how poor soever he may be. Well, I went with his friend to the major. He was glad to see us and took pains to be merry, but I saw very well that he was sad; that his laughter was not genuine, and that, as soon as some one else spoke, he grew gloomy. But I did not ask what ailed him; I feigned not to see any thing, and begged him to accompany us and spend a pleasant evening with a few friends. He refused at first to do so, but I succeeded in overcoming his resistance, and I am not sorry by any means that I did, for the poor major grew quite cheerful at last; he forgot his grief, drank some good wine with us,–more, perhaps, than he had drunk for a year, and then played a little faro with us for the first time in his life. Well, we were all in the best spirits, and that was the reason why I remained so long and came home so late. It was Major von Leesten’s fault, and now my story is at an end!”

“No, it is not!” exclaimed Amelia. “You have not yet told me every thing, Blucher. You have not told me who won your two hundred louis d’ors for which you intended to purchase four new carriage-horses?”

“Yes, that was curious,” said Blucher, composedly, stroking his long white mustache–“that was really curious. Leesten had never before handled a card; he did not know the game, and yet he won from such an old gambler as I am two hundred louis d’ors in the course of a few hours. Leesten won the money that was to pay for the carriage- horses, and you may give him thanks for being compelled to drive for six months longer with our lame old mares.”

A sunbeam, as it were, illuminated Amelia’s countenance; her eyes shone, and her cheeks were glowing with joy. Quickly putting her hands on Blucher’s shoulders, she looked up to him with a smile. “You made him win the money, Gebhard,” she said, in a voice tremulous with emotion. “Oh, do not shake your head–tell me the truth! You made Leesten win, because you wished to preserve him from the necessity of accepting alms. You made him win, that his daughter might marry.”

“Nonsense!” said Blucher, growlingly, “how could I make him win when he did not really win? He would have found it out, and, besides, I would have been a cheat.”

“He did not find it out because you made him drink so much wine, and because he knows nothing about the game; and you are no cheat, because you intentionally made him win; on the contrary, you are a noble, magnanimous man whom Heaven must love. Oh, dear, dearest husband, tell me the truth; let me enjoy the happiness that I have guessed right! You did so intentionally, did you not? The cards did not bring so much good luck to Leesten, but Blucher did!”

“Hush! do not say that so loudly,” exclaimed Blucher, looking anxiously around; “if any one should hear and repeat it, and Leesten should find out how the thing occurred, the fellow would return the money to me.”

“Ah, now you have betrayed yourself–you have confessed that you lost the money intentionally,” exclaimed Amelia, jubilantly. “Oh, thanks, thanks, my noble and generous friend!” She took his hands with passionate tenderness, and pressed them to her lips.

“But, Amelia, what are you doing?” said Blucher, withdrawing his hands in confusion. “Why, you are weeping!”

“Oh, they are tears of joy,” she said, nodding to him with a blissful smile–“tears which I am weeping for my glorious, dear Blucher!”

“Oh, you are too good,” said Blucher, whose face suddenly grew gloomy. “I am nothing but an old, pensioned soldier–a rusty sword flung into a corner. I am an invalid whom they believe to be childish, because he thinks he might still be useful, and the fatherland might need him. But I tell you, Amelia, if I ever should become childish it would be on account of the course pursued toward me; why, I am dismissed from the service; I am refused any thing to do; I am desired to be idle, and the king has given me this accursed estate of Kunzendorf, not as a reward, nor from love, but to get rid of me, and because he is afraid of the French. When he gave it to me last spring, he wrote that I ought to set out for Kunzendorf immediately, and live and remain there, as it behooved every nobleman, in the midst of my peasants. But his real object was to send me into exile; he did not wish me to remain in Berlin!”

“Well, he had to comply with the urgent recommendations of his ministers,” said Madame von Blucher, smiling. “You know very well that all the ministers of the king, with the sole exception of Hardenberg, are friends of the French, and think that Prussia would be lost if she should not faithfully stand by France.”

“They are traitors when they entertain such infamous sentiments,” cried Blucher, wildly stamping with his foot; “they should hang the fellows who are so mean and cowardly as to think that Prussia would be lost if her mortal enemy did not condescend to sustain her. Ah, if the king had listened to me only once, we should have long since driven the French out of the country, and our poor soldiers would not freeze to death in Russia as auxiliaries of Bonaparte. When the danger is greatest, every thing must be risked in order to win every thing, and when a fellow tries to deceive and insult me, I do not consider much whether I had better endure him because may be weaker than he is, but, before he suspects it, I knock him down if I can. You see, that is defending one’s life; this is what the learned call philosophy. But, dearest Amelia, there is but one philosophy in life, and it is this: ‘He who trusts in God and defends himself bravely will never miserably perish.’ Now, the king and his ministers know only one-half of this philosophy, and that is the reason why the whole thing goes wrong. They mean to trust in God, even though, from their blind trust alone, all Prussia fall to ruins; but as for bravely defending themselves, that is what they do not understand. It is too much like old Blucher’s way of doing things, and that is the reason why the learned gentlemen do not like it. Ah! Amelia, when I think of all the wretchedness of Prussia, and that I may have to die without having chastised Bonaparte–without having wrested from him, and flung into his face, the laurels of Jena, Eylau, and Friedland–ah, then I feel like sitting down and crying like a boy. But Heaven cannot be so cruel; it will not let me die before meeting Bonaparte on the field of battle, and avenging all our wrongs upon him. No, I trust I will not die before that– and, after all, I am quite young! Only seventy years of age! My grandfather died in his ninetieth year, and my mother told me often enough that I looked exactly like my grandfather; I shall, therefore, reach my ninetieth year. I have still twenty years to live–twenty years, that is enough–” Just then the door opened, and a footman entered.

“Well, John,” asked Blucher, “what is it? Why do you look so merry, my boy? I suppose you have good news for us, have you not?”

“I have, your excellency,” said the footman. “There is an old man outside, an invalid, attended by a young fellow who, I believe, is his son. The two have come all the way from Pomerania, and want to see General von Blucher. He says he has important news for your excellency.”

“Important news?” asked Blucher. “And he comes from Pomerania? John, I hope it will not be one who wants to tell me the same old story?”

“Your excellency, I believe that is what he comes for,” said John, grinning.

“Amelia,” exclaimed Blucher, bursting into loud laughter, “there is another fellow who wants to tell me that he took me prisoner fifty years since. I believe it is already the seventh rascal who says he was the man.”

“The seventh who wants to get money from you and swindle you,” said Madame von Blucher, smiling.

“No, I believe they do not exactly want to swindle me,” said Blucher, “but I know they like to get a little money, and as they do not want to beg–“

“They come and lie,” interrupted Amelia, smiling. “They know already that General Blucher gives a few louis d’ors to every one who comes and says, ‘General, it was I who took you prisoner in Mecklenburg in 1760, and brought you to the Prussians. You, therefore, are indebted to me for all your glory and your happiness.'”

“Yes, it is true,” said Blucher, laughing and smoothing his mustache. “That is what all six of them said. But one of them did take me prisoner, for the story is true, and if I turn away one of those who tell me the same thing, why, I might happen to hit precisely the man who took me, and that would be a great shame. Therefore, it is better I imagine a whole squadron had taken me at that time, and give money to every one who comes to me for it. Even though he may not be the man, why, he is at least an old hussar, and I shall never turn an old hussar without a little present from my door.” [Footnote: Blucher’s own words.–Vide “Life of Prince Blucher of Wahlstatt, by Varnhagen von Ense,” p. 6.]

“Well, I see you want to bid welcome to your seventh hero and conqueror,” said Amelia, smiling. “Very well, I will quit the field and retire into my cabinet. Farewell, my friend, and when your hero has taken leave of you, I will await you.” She nodded pleasantly to her husband, and left the room.

“Well, John,” said Blucher, sitting down again on his easy-chair at the window, “now let the men come in. But first fill me a pipe. You must take a new one, for I broke the one I was smoking this morning.”

John hastened to the elegant “pipe-board” which stood beside the fireplace, and took from it an oblong, plain wooden box; opening the lid, he drew a new, long clay pipe from it.

“How many pipes are in it yet?” asked Blucher, hastily. “A good lot, John?”

“No, your excellency, only seven whole pipes, and eight broken ones.”

“You may ride to Neisse to-morrow, and buy a box of pipes. Now, give me one, and let the hussar and his son come in.”

CHAPTER X.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MECKLENBURG.

John, the footman, opened the door of the anteroom, and shouted in a loud and solemn voice, “Your excellency, here is Hennemann, the hussar, and his son Christian!”

“Well, come in!” said Blucher, good-naturedly, puffing a cloud of smoke from his pipe.

An old man with silver-white hair, his bent form clad in the old and faded uniform of a hussar, and holding his old-fashioned shako in his hand, entered the room. He was followed by a young man, wearing the costume of a North-German farmer, his heavy yellow hair combed backward and fastened with a large round comb; his full, vigorous form dressed in a long blue cloth coat, reaching down almost to his feet, and lined with white flannel; under it he wore trousers of dark-green velvet that descended only to the knees, and joined there the blue-and-red stockings in which his legs were encased; his feet were armed with thick shoes, adorned with buckles, while their soles bristled with large nails.

“Where do you come from?” asked Blucher, fixing his eyes with a kind expression on the two men.

“From Rostock, your excellency,” said the old man, making a respectful obeisance.

“From Rostock?” asked Blucher, joyously. “Why, that is my native city.”

“I know that very well, general,” said the old hussar, who vainly tried to hide his Low-German accent. “All Rostock knows it, too, and every child there boasts of Blucher being our countryman.”

“Well,” said Blucher, smiling, “then you come from Rostock. Do you live there?”

“Not exactly in Rostock, your excellency. My daughter Frederica is married to a tailor in Rostock, and I was with her for four weeks. I myself live at Polchow, a nobleman’s estate four miles from Rostock; I am there at the house of my eldest son.”

“Is that your eldest son?” asked Blucher, pointing with his clay pipe at the young man, who stood by the side of his aged father, and was turning his hat in his hand in an embarrassed manner.

“No, sir, he is my youngest son, and it is just for his sake that I have come to you. Christian was a laborer in the service of our nobleman at Polchow, and he desired to marry a girl with whom he had fallen in love. But the nobleman would not permit it; he said Christian should wait some ten years until there was a house vacant in the village, and some of the old peasants had died. This drove him to despair; he wanted to commit suicide, and said he would die rather than be a day laborer on an estate in Mecklenburg, which is no better than being the nobleman’s slave.”

“Yes,” cried Christian, indignantly, “that is true, general. A day laborer on an estate in Mecklenburg is a slave, that is all. The nobleman owns him. If he wants to do so, he may disable him, nay, he may kill him. Such a laborer has no rights, no will, no property, no home, no country; he is not allowed to live anywhere but in his village: he cannot settle in any other place, and is not permitted to marry unless the nobleman who owns the village gives his consent, nor can he ever be any thing else than what his father and grandfather were, that is to say, the nobleman’s laborers. And I do not wish to be such and do nothing else than putting the horses to the plough. I want to marry Frederica, and become a free man, and if that cannot be I will commit suicide.”

“Ahem! he has young blood,” said Blucher, well pleased and smiling, “fresh Mecklenburgian blood. I like that! But you must not abuse Mecklenburg, Christian; I love Mecklenburg, because it is my native country.”

“It is a good country for noblemen who have money,” said Christian, “but for day laborers who have none it is a poor country. And that was the reason why I said to the old man, ‘Vatting [Footnote: “Vatting,” Low-German for “papa.”], shall I commit suicide or run away and enlist.'”

“And I then said, ‘Well, my son, in that case it will be better for you to enlist,'” added the old man, “‘and, moreover, you shall enlist under a good general. I will show you that my life is yet good for something; I will do for your sake what I have purposed to do all my lifetime: I will go to General Blucher, tell him whom I am, and ask him to reward my boy for what I did for him.'”

Blucher looked with a good-natured smile at the poor old man who stood before him in the faded and threadbare uniform of a private soldier.

“Well, my old friend,” he said, “what have you done for me, then?”

The old man raised his head, and a solemn expression overspread his bronzed and furrowed countenance. “General,” he said, gravely, “it was I who took you prisoner in Mecklenburg in 1760, and to me, therefore, you are indebted for all your glory and happiness.”

Blucher covered his face with his hands, that the old man might not see his smile. “It is just as Amelia told me it would be,” he said to himself. He then added aloud: “Well, tell me the story, that I may see whether it was really you who took me prisoner.”

“It is a long story,” said the old man, sighing, “and if I am to tell it, I must ask a favor of your excellency.”

“Well, what is it? Speak, my old friend,” said Blucher, puffing a cloud from his pipe, and satisfied that the old hussar would apply to him for money.

“I must beg leave to sit down, general,” said the old man, timidly. “We have come on foot all the way from Rostock, and it is only fifteen minutes since we reached this village. We took only time enough at the tavern to change our dress; I put on my uniform, and Christian put on his Sunday coat. I am eighty years old, general, and my legs are not as strong as they used to be.”

“Eighty years old!” exclaimed Blucher, jumping up, “eighty years old, and you have come on foot all the way from Rostock! Why, that is impossible! Christian, tell me, that cannot be true!”

“Yes, general, it is true. We have been on the way for three weeks past, for the old man cannot walk very fast, and we had not money enough to ride. We had to be thankful for having enough to pay for our beds at the taverns. And my father is more than eighty years of age! We have brought his certificate of birth with us.”

“Eighty years of age, and he came on foot all the way from Rostock, and I allow the old man to stand and offer him no chair!” exclaimed Blucher,–“I do not ask whether he is hungry and thirsty! John! John!” And Blucher rushed to the bell-rope and rang the bell so violently that John entered the room in great excitement. “John, quick!” shouted Blucher. “Quick, a bottle of wine, two glasses, and bread, butter, and ham; and tell them in the kitchen to prepare a good dinner for these men, and have a room with two beds made ready for them in the adjoining house. Quick, John! In five minutes the wine and the other things must be here! Run!”

John hastened out of the room, and Blucher approached the old man, who looked on, speechless and deeply moved by the kind zeal the general had displayed in his behalf.

“Come, my dear friend,” said Blucher, kindly, taking him by the hand and conducting him across the room to his favorite seat at the window. “There, sit down on my easy-chair and rest.”

“No, general, no; that would be disrespectful!”

“Fiddlesticks!” replied Blucher; “an octogenarian is entitled to more respect than a general’s epaulets are. Now do not refuse, but sit down!” And with his vigorous arms he pressed him into the easy- chair. He then quietly took his clay pipe from the window, and sat down on a cane chair opposite the old hussar. “And now tell me the story of my arrest as a prisoner. I promise you that I will believe it all.”

“General, you may believe nothing but what is true,” replied the old man, solemnly.

Blucher nodded. “Commence,” he said, “but no–wait a while! There is John with the wine and the bread and butter. Now eat and drink first.”

“I cannot eat, for I am not hungry. But, if the general will permit me, I will drink a glass of wine.”

“Come, John, two glasses!–fill them to the brim! And now, my friend, let us drink. Here’s to our native country!” Blucher filled his glass with claret; his eyes flashed, and his face kindled with the fire of youth, when he, the young septuagenarian, touched with his glass that of the feeble octogenarian. “Hurrah, my old countryman,” he shouted, jubilantly, “long live Mecklenburg! long live Rostock and the shore of the Baltic! Now empty your glass, my friend, and you, John, fill it again, and then put the wine and the bread and butter on the table beside the fireplace, that Christian may help himself. Eat and drink, Christian, but do not stir, or say a word, for we two old ones have to speak with each other. Now tell me the story, my old friend!”

“Well,” said the old man, putting down his empty glass, “I had run away from my parents because I was just in the same difficulty as Christian: I did not wish to remain a day laborer. I also wanted to marry, and the nobleman would not let me. Well, I ran away, and enlisted in Old Fritz’s army, in Colonel Belling’s regiment of hussars. It was in 1760; we had a great deal to do at that time; we were every day skirmishing with the Swedes, for we were stationed in Mecklenburg, and the Swedes were so dreadfully bold as to make raids throughout Brandenburg and Mecklenburg. One day, I believe it was in August, 1760, just when we, Belling’s hussars, occupied the towpath close to Friedland in Mecklenburg, another detachment of Swedish hussars approached to harass us. They were headed by a little ensign–a handsome young lad, scarcely twenty years of age, a very impertinent baby! And this young rascal rode closely to the old hussars, and commenced to crow in his sweet little voice, abusing us, and told us at last, if we were courageous enough, to come on; he had not had his breakfast, he said, and would like to swallow about a dozen of Belling’s hussars. Well, the other hussars rejoiced in the pluck of the young fellow, and a handsome lad he was, with clear blue eyes and red cheeks. But his saucy taunts irritated me, and when the little ensign continued laughing, and telling us we were cowards, I became very angry, galloped up to him and shouted: ‘Now, you little imp, I will kill you!'”

“Sure enough,” exclaimed Blucher, in surprise, “that was what the hussar shouted. It seems to me as though I hear it still sounding in my ears. But none of the other hussars told me this; it is new, and it is true. Hennemann, could it be possible that you should really be the man who took me prisoner at that time?”

“Listen to the remainder of my story, general, and you will soon find out whether it was I or not. I galloped up to him, and while the Prussians and Swedes were fighting, I fixed my eyes on my merry little ensign; when I was quite close to him, I shot down his horse. The ensign was unable then to offer much resistance, and, besides, I was a very strong, active man. I took him by the collar and put him on my horse in front of me.”

“And the ensign submitted to that without defending himself?” asked Blucher, angrily.

“By no means! On the contrary, he was as red in the face as a crawfish, and resisting struck me. I held his arms fast, but he disengaged himself with so violent a jerk that the yellow facings of his right sleeve remained in my hand.”

“That is true,” exclaimed Blucher.

“Yes, it is true,” said the old man, calmly; “but it is true also that I got hold again of the ensign and took him to Colonel von Belling, to whom I stated that I had captured the handsome lad. The colonel liked his face and courageous bearing; he kept the Swedish ensign at his headquarters, where he appointed him cornet the next day, and made the little Ensign Blucher apply to the Swedes for permission to quit their service.”

“And I got my discharge,” exclaimed Blucher, quite absorbed in his reminiscences, “and became a Prussian soldier. Good, brave Colonel Belling bought me the necessary equipment, and appointed me his aide-de-camp and lieutenant. The Lord have mercy on his dear soul! Belling was an excellent man, and I am indebted to him for all I am.”

“No, general,” said Hennemann, “it is to me that you are indebted, for if I had not taken you prisoner at that time–“

“Sure enough,” exclaimed Blucher, laughing, “if you had not taken me prisoner, I should now be a poor old pensioned Swedish veteran. But you certainly took me prisoner, I really believe you did!”

“I have the proofs that I did,” said the old man solemnly. “Christian!”

“Here I am, vatting,” said Christian, rising. “What do you want?”

“Give me the memorandum-book with the papers.”

Christian drew from his blue coat a red morocco memorandum-book and handed it to his father. “Here, vatting,” he said, “every thing is in it, the certificate of birth, the enlistment paper, the discharge, and the other thing.”

“I just want to get the other thing,” said the old man, opening the memorandum-book, “and here it is!” He took out a yellow piece of cloth and handed it to Blucher.

“It is a piece of my sleeve!” exclaimed Blucher, joyously, holding up the piece of cloth. “Yes, Hennemann, it was really you who took me prisoner, and I am indebted to you for being a Prussian general to-day! And I promise you that I will now pay you a good ransom. Give me your hand, old fellow; we ought to remain near each other. Fifty-two years since you took me prisoner, but now I take you prisoner in turn, and you must remain with me; you shall live at ease, and at times in the evening you must tell me of Mecklenburg, and how it looks there, and of Rostock, and–well, and when you are in good spirits, you must sing to me a Low-German song!”

“Mercy!” exclaimed the old man, in dismay; “I cannot sing, general. I am eighty years old, and old age has dried up the fountain of my song.”

“Sure enough, you are eighty years old,” said Blucher, puffing his pipe, “and at that age few persons are able to sing. But I should really like to hear again a merry native song. I have not heard one for fifty years, for here, you see, Hennemann, people are so stupid and ignorant as not even to understand Low-German.”

“I believe that,” said the old man, gravely, “and it is not so easy to understand–one must he a native of Mecklenburg to understand it.”

“It is a pity that you cannot sing,” said Blucher, sighing.

“But, perhaps Christian can,” said old Hennemann. “Tell me, Christian, can you sing?”

“Yes, vatting,” replied Christian, clearing his throat.

“‘Vatting!'” exclaimed Blucher. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it means that he loves his father, and therefore calls him, in good Mecklenburg style, ‘vatting.'”

“Sure enough, I remember now,” exclaimed Blucher. “Vatting! mutting! [Footnote: “Mutting,” mamma] Yes, yes; I have often used these words, ‘mutting–my mutting!’ Ah, it seems to me as though I behold the beautiful blue eyes of my mother when she looked at me so mildly and lovingly and said, ‘You are a wild, reckless boy, Gebhard; I am afraid you will come to grief!’ Then I used to beg her, ‘My mutting, my mutting! I will no longer be a bad boy! I will not be naughty! Do not be angry any more, my mutting!’ And she always forgave me, and interceded for me with my father, whenever he was incensed against me, and scolded me, because, instead of studying my books and going to school, I was always loitering about the fields or hunting in the woods. At last, when I was fourteen years old, and was still an incorrigible scapegrace, they sent me to the island of Rugen, to my sister, who was married to Baron von Krackwitz. But I did not stay there very long. The Swedes came to the island, and I could not withstand the desire to become a soldier; therefore, I ran away from the island and enlisted in the Swedish army. Well, I had to do so, I could not help it, for it was in my nature. Up to that time I was like a fish on dry land, moving his tail in every direction without crushing a fly; when I got into the water it was all right. If I had been kept much longer out, I would have died very soon [Footnote: Blucher’s own words]. When I was now in the water–that is to say, when I was a soldier, I lost my mother; I never saw her again, and know only that she wept a great deal for me. And I never was able to beg her to forgive me, and tell her, ‘Do not be angry, my dear mutting!’ I was a dashing young soldier, and she was weeping for me at Rostock, for she believed I would come to grief. Well, I was first lieutenant in some Prussian fortress when they wrote to me that my mother was dead. Yes, she had died and I was not at her bedside; I was never able to say to her for the last time, ‘Forgive me, my mutting!’ But now I say so from the bottom of my heart.” While uttering these words, Blucher raised his head and fixed his large eyes with a touching and childlike expression on the wintry sky.

Old Hennemann devoutly clasped his hands, and tears ran slowly down his furrowed cheeks. Christian stood at the door, and dried his eyes with his coat-sleeve.

“Thunder and lightning,” suddenly exclaimed Blucher, “how foolish I am! That is the consequence of being absorbed in one’s recollections. While talking about Mecklenburg I had really forgotten that I am an old boy of seventy years, and thought I was still the naughty young rascal who longed to ask his mutting to forgive him! Well, Christian, now sing us a Low-German song.”

“I know but one song,” said Christian, hesitatingly. “It is the spinning-song which my Frederica sang to me in the spinning-room.”

“Well, sing your spinning-song,” said Blucher, looking at his pipe, which was going out.

Christian cleared his throat, and sang:

Spinn doch, spinn doch, min lutt lewes Dochting, Ick schenk Di ock’n poor hubsche Schoh! Ach Gott, min lewes, lewes Mutting,
Wat helpen mi de hubschen Schoh!
Kann danzen nich, un kann nich spinnen. Denn alle mine teigen Finger,
De dohn mi so weh,
De dohn mi so weh!

Spinn doch, spinn doch, min lutt, lewes Dochting, Ick schenk Di ock’n schon Stuck Geld.
Ach Gott, min lewes, lewes Mutting, Ick wull, ick wihr man ut de Welt,
Kann danzen nich, un kann nich spinnen Denn alle mine teigen Finger,
De dohn mi so weh,
De dohn mi so weh!

Spinn doch, spinn doch, min lutt, lewes Dochting. Ick schenk Di ock’n bubschen Mann!
Ach ja, min lewes, lewes Mutting,
Schenk min lewsten, besten Mann.
Kann danzen nu, un kann ock spinnen, Denn alle mine teigen Finger,
De dohn nich mihr weh,
De dohn nioh mihr weh!

[Footnote: The song is translated as follows:

Spin, spin, my little daughter, dear! A pretty pair of shoes for thee!–
Alas, my mother! let me hear
What use are pretty shoes to me!
I cannot dance–I cannot spin:
And why these promised shoes to win! O mother mine. I will not take
Thy kindly gift. My fingers ache!

Spin, spin, my little daughter dear!
And a bright silver-piece is thine!– Alas, my mother’s loving care
Makes not this shining money mine! I cannot dance–I cannot spin;
What use such wages thus to win?
O mother dear! I cannot take
This silver, for my fingers ache.

Spin, spin, my little daughter dear!
For thee a handsome husband waits.– Oh, then, my mother, have no fear;
My heart this work no longer hates. Now can I dance, and also spin,
A handsome husband thus to win.
Thy best reward I gladly take!
No more–no more, my ringers ache.]

“A very pretty song,” said Blucher, kindly. “And I believe I heard the girls sing it when I was a boy. Thank you, Christian, you have sung it very well. But, tell me now, old Hennemann, what is to become of Christian? You yourself shall remain here at Kunzendorf, and I will see to it that you are well provided for. But what about Christian?”

“He is anxious to enlist, general,” said Hennemann, timidly, “and that is the reason why I brought him to your excellency. I wanted to request you to take charge of him, and make out of him as good a soldier as you are yourself.”

Blucher smiled. “I have been successful,” he said, “but those were good days for soldiers. Now, however, the times are very unfavorable; the Prussian soldier has nothing to do, and must quietly look on while the French are playing the mischief in Prussia.”

“No, general,” said Hennemann, “it seems to me the Prussian soldier has a great deal to do.”

“Well, what do you think he has to do?” asked Blucher.

“To expel the French from Prussia, that is what he has to do,” said the old man, raising his voice.

“Yes,” said Blucher, smiling, “if that could be done, I should like to be counted in.”

“It can be done, general; every honest man says so, and it ought to be, for the French are behaving too shamefully. They must be expelled from Germany. Well, then, my Christian wishes to assist you in doing so; he wishes to become a soldier, and help you to drive out the French.”

“Alas, he must apply to some one else if he wishes to do that,” said Blucher, mournfully. “I cannot help him, for they have pensioned me. I have no regiments. I–but, thunder and lightning! what is the matter with my pipe today? The thing will not burn.” And he put his little finger into the bowl, and tried to smoke again.

“The pipe does not draw well, because it was not skilfully filled,” said Christian. “I know it was badly filled.”

“Ay?” asked Blucher. “What do you know? John has been filling my pipes for four years past.”

“John has done it very poorly,” said Christian, composedly. “To fill such a clay pipe is an art with which a good many are not familiar, and when it is smoked for the first time it does not burn very well. It ought first to be smoked by some one, and John ought to have done so yesterday if the general wished to use his pipe to-day.”

“Why, he knows something about a clay pipe,” exclaimed Blucher, “and he is right; it always tastes better on the second day than on the first.”

“That is the reason why the second day always ought to be the first for General Blucher,” said Christian.

“He is right,” exclaimed Blucher, laughing, “it would surely be better if the second were always the first day. Well, I know now what is to be made of Christian; he is to become my pipe-master.”

“Pipe-master?” asked old Hennemann and Christian at the same time. “Pipe-master, what is that?”

“That is a man who keeps my pipes in good order,” said Blucher, with a ludicrously grave air–“a man who makes the second my first day– who smokes my pipes first–puts them back into the box at night, preserves the broken ones, and fills them, however short they may be. He who does not prize a short pipe, does not deserve to have a long one. A good pipe and good tobacco are things of the highest importance in life. Ah! if, in 1807, at Lubeck, I had had powder for the guns and tobacco for my men, I would have raised such clouds that the French could not have stood. [Footnote: Blucher’s own words.–Vide “Marshall Forward,” a popular biography.] Well, Christian, you shall therefore become my pipe-master, and I hope you will faithfully perform the duties of your office.”

“I shall certainly take pains to do so,” said Christian, “and you may depend on it, general, that I shall preserve the broken, short pipes; I will not throw them away before it is necessary. But suppose there should be war, general, and you should take the field, what would become of me in that case?”

“Well, in that case you will accompany me,” said Blucher. “What should I do in the field if I could not get a good pipe of tobacco all the time? Without that I am of no account. [Footnote: Blucher’s own words.] But it is necessary to do good service for Prussia, and hence I need, above all, a good pipe of tobacco in the field. Well, then, tell me now plainly, will you accept the office I offer you in peace and in war, Christian?”

“Yes, general,” said Christian, solemnly. “And I swear that General Blucher shall never lack a well-lighted pipe, even though I fetch a match from the French gunners to kindle it.”

“That is right, Christian; you are in my service now, and may at once enter upon the duties of your office. You, Hennemann, stay here and do me the favor of living as long and being as merry as possible. Now, pipe-master, ring the bell!”

The new pipe-master rang the bell, and John entered the room.

“John!” said Blucher, “I owe a reparation of honor to this aged hussar. It was he who took me prisoner in 1760. He brought me the proof of it–the yellow facing of the sleeve here. Take it and fasten it to the old uniform of Blucher, the Swedish ensign, which I have always preserved; it belongs to it. You see that hussar Hennemann is an honest man, and that I owe him the ransom. He will stay here, and have nothing to do but eat and drink well, sit in the sun, and, in the evening, when it affords him pleasure, tell you stories of the Seven Years’ War, in which he participated. If other hussars come and tell you they took me prisoner, you know it is not true, and need not admit them. But you must not abuse the poor old fellows for that reason, nor tell them that they are swindlers. You will give them something to eat and drink, a bed overnight, and, in the morning, when they set out, a dollar for travelling expenses. Now take the old man and his son to the adjoining building, and tell the inspector to give them a room where they are to live. And then,” added Blucher, hesitatingly, and almost in confusion,–“you have too much to do, John; you must have an assistant. It takes you too much time to fill my pipes, and this young man, therefore, will help you. I have appointed Christian Hennemann my pipe-master. Well, do not reply–take the two men to the building, and be good friends–do you hear, good friends!”

John bowed in silence, and made a sign to the two Mecklenburgians to follow him. Blucher gazed after them with keen glances. “Well, I am afraid their friendship will not amount to much,” he said, smiling and stroking his beard. “John does not like this pipe-master business, and will show it to Christian as soon as an opportunity offers. I do not care if they do have a good fight. It would be a little diversion, for it is horribly tedious here. Ah, how long is this to last? How long am I to sit here and wait until Prussia and the king call upon me to drive Napoleon out of the country? How long am I to be idle while Bonaparte is gaining one victory after another in Russia? I have not much time to spare for waiting, and–well,” he suddenly interrupted, himself, quickly stepping up to the window, “what is that? Is not that a carriage driving into the court-yard?” Yes, it really is, just entering the iron gate, and rolling with great noise across the pavement. “I wonder who that is?” muttered Blucher, casting a piercing glance into the carriage which stopped at this moment in front of the mansion. He uttered a cry of joy, and ran out of the room with the alacrity of a youth.

CHAPTER XI.

GLAD TIDINGS.

“It is he, it is he!” exclaimed General Blucher, rushing out of the front door, and hastening with outstretched arms toward the gentleman, who, wrapped in a Russian fur robe, alighted with his two servants. “My beloved Scharnhorst!” And he clasped his friend in his arms as if it were some longed-for mistress whom he was pressing to his bosom.

“Blucher, my dear friend, let me go, or you will choke me!” exclaimed Scharnhorst, laughing. “Come, let us go into the house.”

“Yes, come, dearest, best friend!” said Blucher, and encircling Scharnhorst’s neck with his arm, drew him along so hastily that, gasping for breath, the latter was scarcely able to accompany him.

On entering the sitting-room, Blucher himself divested his friend of his fur robe, and, throwing it on the floor in his haste, took off Scharnhorst’s cap. “I must look at you, my friend,” he exclaimed. “I must see the face of my dear Scharnhorst, and now that I see it, I must kiss it! To see you again does me as much good as a fountain in the desert to the pilgrim dying of thirst.”

“Well, but now you must allow me to say a word,” said Scharnhorst. “And let me look at yourself. Remember, it is nearly a year since I saw anything of you but your hand-writing.”

“And that is very illegible,” said Blucher, laughing.

“It is at least not as legible and intelligible as your dear face,” said Scharnhorst. “Here, on this forehead and in these eyes, I can read quickly and easily all that your excellent head thinks, and your noble heart feels. And now I read there that I am really welcome, and need not by any means apologize for not having announced my visit to you.”

“Apologize!” exclaimed Blucher. “You know full well that you afford me the most heart-felt joy, and that I feel as though spring were coming with all its blessed promises.”

“Well, let us not wish spring to come too early this year. We need a good deal of ice and cold weather, to build a crystal palace for Bonaparte in Russia.”

Blucher cast a flashing glance upon his guest. “Scharnhorst,” he asked, breathlessly, “you have come to bring me important news, have you not? Oh, pray, speak! I am sure you have come to tell me that the time has come for rising against the French!”

“No; I have simply come to see you,” said Scharnhorst, smiling. “And you are in truth a cold-hearted friend to think any other motive was required than that of friendship.”

“I thought it was time for Providence to bring about a change. But it was kind of you to come to me merely for my sake, and, moreover, in weather so cold as this, and at your age.”

“At my age!” exclaimed Scharnhorst, smiling.

“Why, yes, my friend, at your age. If I am not mistaken, you must be well-nigh sixty, and at that time of life travelling in a season like this is assuredly somewhat unpleasant, and–but why do you laugh?”

“As you refer to my age, my dearest friend, I suppose you will permit me to speak of yours?”

“Why not? We are no marriageable girls on the lookout for husbands.”

“Well, then, my dear General Blucher, how old are yon?”

“I? I am a little over seventy.”

“And I am fifty-six, and yet you think old age is weighing me down, while a wreath of snow-drops is overhanging your brow.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Blucher, in confusion. “I had really forgotten my age.”

“The reason is, that your heart is still young and fresh,” exclaimed Scharnhorst, looking at him tenderly, and laying his hand on Blucher’s broad shoulder. “Thank God! you are still young Blucher, with his fiery head and heroic arm–young Blucher whose eagle eye gazes into the future, and who does not despair, however disheartening the present may be.”

“I am sure you have brought news,” said Blucher. “I can see it in your eyes–Heaven knows whether good or bad. But you have news, I know it.”

“No, my young firebrand,” exclaimed Scharnhorst, “I bring only myself, and this self I should like now above all to lay at the feet of your respected wife.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Blucher; “in my joy I almost forgot that my Amelia ought to share it. Come, general, let me conduct you to my wife.” He took Scharnhorst’s arm and conducted him rapidly across the sitting-room toward the apartments of Madame von Blucher. “Tread softly; you know what an admirer of yours my wife is, and how glad she will be to see you. We will, therefore, surprise her. She doubtless did not notice your arrival, for her windows open upon the garden. She does not yet know that you are here, and how glad she will be! Hush!”

He glided to the door and rapped. “Amelia,” he said, “are you there, and may I come in?”

“Of course I am here,” exclaimed Madame von Blucher, “and you know well that I have already been looking for you for two hours past. Come in!”

“I have a visitor with me; do you allow me to enter with him, Amelia?”

“A visitor?” asked Madame von Blucher, opening the door. “General von Scharnhorst!” she exclaimed, hastening to him and offering him both her hands. “Welcome, general, and may Heaven reward you for the idea of visiting an old woman and her young husband in their wintry solitude. Come, general, do my room the honor of entering it.” She took the general’s arm and drew him in.

“Scharnhorst,” said Blucher, “let me give you some good advice. Do not make love in too undisguised a manner to my wife, for she is right in saying that I am still a young man, and I may become jealous; that would be a pity! I should then have to fight a duel with my friend, and one of us would have to die; and yet we are destined to deliver Prussia, and to drive that hateful man Bonaparte out of Germany.”

“See, madame, what a shrewd and self-willed intriguer he is!” exclaimed Scharnhorst. “He avails himself of the boundless adoration I feel for you to assist him in wandering into his favorite sphere of politics. Madame, the barbarian believes it to be altogether impossible that I come merely from motives of friendship, and insists that it was politics that brought me!”

“Yes,” said Madame von Blucher, smiling, “Blucher loves politics, he has no other mistress.”

“No,” said Blucher, laughing, “I know nothing at all about politics, and believe the world would be better off if there were no politicians. They originate all our troubles. Those diplomatists are always sure to spoil what the sword has achieved. Politics have brought all these calamities upon Germany; otherwise, we should long since have risen against the French, instead of allowing our soldiers to fight for Bonaparte in Russia. I say it is absurd, and I am so angry at it that it will make me consumptive. I say all those diplomatists ought to be sent into the field against Russia in order to study new-fangled politics in Siberia. I say–“

“You will say nothing further about the matter, my friend, for there is John, who wishes to tell us that dinner is ready,” Madame von Blucher interrupted her husband, who, glowing with anger, and trembling with excitement, was fighting with his arms in the air and with a terrible expression of countenance. “Come, general, let us go to the dining-room,” said Madame von Blucher, giving her hand to Scharnhorst. “And you, my valorous young husband, give me your hand, too!”

“Wait a moment,” Blucher replied. “I must first give vent to my anger, or it will choke me.” At a bound, he rushed as a passionate boy toward the sofa, and, striking it with both fists, so that the dust rose from it in clouds, shouted: “Have I got you at length, you horrible butcher–are you at length under my scourge? Now you shall find out how Pomeranians whip their enemies, and what it is to treat people as shamefully as you have done. I will whip you–yes, until you cry, ‘Pater, peccavi!’ There, take that for Jena, and this blow for compelling me to capitulate at Lubeck; and this and this for the infamies you have perpetrated upon our beautiful queen at Tilsit! This last blow take for the Russian treaty to which you compelled our king to accede, and now a few more yet! If Heaven does not strike you, Blucher must; you ought not to be left unpunished!”

“Ah, well, that is enough, my friend,” exclaimed Amelia, hastening to him and seizing his arm, which he had already raised again. “You are very capable of destroying my sofa, and you believe that you have gained a campaign by tearing my beautiful velvet in shreds.”

“Well, yes, it is enough now, and I feel better. Well, my friend,” he said, turning to Scharnhorst, who had witnessed his foolish antics with a grave and mournful air, “you need not look at me in so melancholy a manner. I suppose they have told you, too, that old Blucher at times gets crazy, and strikes at the flies on the wall, and beats chairs and sofas, because, in his insanity, he believes them to be Napoleon. [Footnote: Owing to this peculiarity and the strange ebullitions of rage in which he indulged from time to time, Blucher was really believed to be deranged for several years previous to the outbreak of the war of liberation.] But it is assuredly no madness that makes me act in this manner, as stupid fools assert, but it is simply a way in which I relieve my anger, that it may not break my heart. It is the same as if a man who has to fight a duel should take fencing-lessons, and practise with the sword, in order to hit his adversary. But I have satisfied my anger, and will again be as gentle as a lamb.”

“Yes, as a lamb which reverses the order of things, and, instead of allowing the wolf to devour it, is quite ready to devour the wolf,” said Scharnhorst, laughing.

“Let us go to dinner, generals,” cried Amelia; “but on one condition! During the repast not a word must be said about my hateful rival, politics, nor will you be permitted to sprinkle Napoleon as cayenne pepper over our dishes. Blucher is too hot- blooded, and pepper does not agree with him.”

“But a glass of champagne agrees with him when a dear friend is present,” exclaimed Blucher. “Oh, John, come here! Accompany my wife, Scharnhorst; I have only to tell John what he is to fetch from the wine-cellar.”

While Blucher gave his orders to John in a hurried and low voice, instructing him to place a substantial battery of bottles of champagne in front of the two generals, Scharnhorst preceded him with Madame von Blucher to the dining-room.

“Madame von Blucher,” whispered Scharnhorst, after satisfying himself by a quick side glance that Blucher was too far from them to overhear his words, “permit me to ask a question. Is your husband strong and healthy enough, both physically and mentally, for me to talk to him about politics? May I communicate to him some important news which I have received today, or would I thereby excite him too much?”

“Do you bring glad tidings?” asked Amelia.

“I believe we may consider them so; at all events, they are encouraging.”

“In that case, general, you may unhesitatingly communicate them; but, pray, do so only after dinner, and when he has somewhat recovered from the excitement with which your welcome but unexpected visit has filled him. Blucher’s mind is perfectly strong and healthy, but his body is feeble, and he is still affected with a disease of the stomach, which, precisely at dinner, very often gives him severe pain: Pray, therefore, no excitement and no politics at the dinner-table.”

“So, here I am,” said Blucher, who had followed them, and now took the general’s arm; “now, children, quick, for I long to take wine again with my dear Scharnhorst.”

Scharnhorst faithfully complied with the wishes of Madame von Blucher. No allusion to politics was made during the dinner, and their conversation was harmless, merry, and desultory. They left the dining-room, and took coffee in the cozy sitting-room of Madame von Blucher.

“And now,” said Blucher, who was sitting on the sofa by the side of Scharnhorst, while his wife sat in the easy-chair opposite them, “let us fill our pipes, or rather smoke them, for they have already been filled.”

“But shall we he permitted to do so in your wife’s room?” asked Scharnhorst.

“Oh, I have been accustomed to it for twenty years past,” exclaimed Amelia, laughing. “When I wished to have Blucher in my room, and by my side, I could not show the door to his pipe; and therefore, as a good soldier’s wife, I have accustomed myself to the odor of tobacco-smoke.”

“Well,” said Blucher, pointing to the two clay pipes which lay on the silver tray beside the burning wax-candle and the cup filled with paper-kindlers, “take a match and fire the cannon; luckily it makes no noise, but only smoke.”

Madame von Blucher handed each of the gentlemen a clay pipe, and then held a burning paper close to the tobacco.

“Now, the guns are ready, and the battle may commence,” said Blucher, puffing a cloud from his pipe.

“You see, general,” said Amelia, turning to Scharnhorst with a significant glance, “madcap Blucher cannot refrain from talking all the time about battles and politics. Now, indulge him in his whim, general, and talk a little with him about these topics.”

“I believe it will amount to little,” growled Blucher. “If Scharnhorst had brought good news he would not have kept me so long from knowing it. No; the news is always the same; I know it already! New bulletins favorable to Napoleon–nothing else!”

Scharnhorst smiled. “Why, my friend, what is the reason of your sudden despondency? Have you, then, lost all your faith in the approach of better times?–you who used to be more courageous than any of us, you who hitherto cherished the firm belief in a change for the better, and were to us a shining beacon of honor, hope, and courage! What shall we do, and what is to become of us, when Blucher gets discouraged and ceases to hope?”

“Well,” said Blucher, “I am not yet discouraged; I still hope for a change for the better, and know that it will surely come, for Scharnhorst still lives and paves the way for more prosperous times. Yes, certainly, there will be better times; Scharnhorst is secretly creating an army for us, and when the army has been organized, he will call me, and I shall put myself beside him at the head of the troops, and we shall then march against the French emperor with drums beating; we shall defeat him–drive him with his routed soldiers beyond the frontiers of Germany, so that he never again shall dare to return to the fatherland. Providence has spared me so long for this purpose; I believe that I am chosen to chastise the insolent Napoleon for all his crimes committed against Germany and Prussia. I am destined to overthrow him, deliver my country, and victoriously reestablish my dear king in all his former states. Napoleon must be hurled from his throne, and I must assist in bringing about his downfall; and before that has been accomplished I will and cannot die. [Footnote: Blucher’s own words.–Vide his biography by Varnhagen von Ense, p. 128.] Yes, laugh at me as much as you please; I am already accustomed to that when talking in this style; but it will, nevertheless, prove true, and my prophecies will be fulfilled. You may deride me, but you cannot shake my firm belief in what I tell you.”

“But I do not deride you,” said Scharnhorst. “I am glad of your reliance on Heaven, which, while all were discouraged and despairing, stood as a rock in the midst of the breakers. I always looked to you, Blucher; the thought of you always strengthened and encouraged me, and when I at times felt like giving way to despair, I said to myself, ‘For shame, Scharnhorst! take heart and hope, for Blucher still lives, and so long as he lives there is hope!'”

“Henceforth,” exclaimed Blucher, with radiant eyes, giving his hand to his friend, “henceforth no one will deny that God has made us for each other. What you said about me I have repeated to myself every day about you. What was my consolation when Prussia, after the treaty of Tilsit, was wholly prostrated and ruined? ‘Scharnhorst still lives!’ What did I say to myself when the cowardly ministers, in the beginning of the present year, had concluded the abominable alliance with France? ‘Scharnhorst still lives!’ And when our poor regiments had to march to Russia as Bonaparte’s auxiliaries, I said to myself: ‘Scharnhorst is still there to create a new army, and God is there to give victory one day to this army, which I shall command.’ Oh, tell me, my friend, what are your plans? What have you been able to accomplish in regard to the reorganization of the army? And what about the new officers’ regulations which you are having printed?”

“They have already been printed, and I have brought a copy for you,” said Scharnhorst, drawing a printed book from his breast-pocket, and handing it to his friend.

Blucher gazed on it long with grave and musing eyes, read the title- page, and glanced over the contents. “Scharnhorst,” he then said, solemnly, “this is a great and important work, and posterity only will appreciate its whole importance, and thank you deservedly for it. Our old military structure was utterly rotten, and the first storm, therefore, caused it to break down and fall to pieces. But Scharnhorst is an architect who knew how to find among the ruins material for a new and solid structure, and this structure will one day cause the power of Bonaparte to disappear. This book, which entirely changes the duties and relations of the officers of all arms, and transforms our whole military system, is the splendid plan of the building which you are about to erect. By the introduction of these regulations the antiquated system which brought upon Prussia the defeats of Jena and Auerstadt, is abolished; the great simplicity of the scheme, and its practical spirit, are the best antidotes against the prevalence of the old-fashioned notions which have proved so disastrous. You have performed a great work, Scharnhorst, and Prussia must thank you for it as long as she has an army.”

“I may say at least that I have striven for a grand object,” said Scharnhorst, “and I have left nothing undone in order to attain it. Many changes had to be made, and many evils eradicated, when the king, after the calamitous days of Tilsit, placed me at the head of the commission which was to reorganize the whole Prussian army. We had to work night and day, for it was incumbent upon us to arrange a new system of conscription, organize the levies, draw up new articles of war, and complete the battalions, squadrons, and batteries. It was, besides, our task to give the army an honorable position, to constitute the soldier the sacred guardian of the noblest blessing of all nations–Liberty and nationality; and to give him a country for which he was to fight. The soldier, therefore, had to be a citizen; the army was no longer to consist of hirelings, but of the sons of the country, and to these had to be intrusted the sacred and inevitable duty of learning the profession of arms, and of devoting for some time their services to the fatherland. The citizens had to be transformed into soldiers, and the name of ‘soldier’ had, as it was among the Romans, to become a title of honor. In order to bring this about, it was necessary, too, that the distinction of birth, to which the government, in commissioning officers and hitherto paid so much attention, should be entirely discarded. Every recruit had to know that by bravery, courage, industry, and intelligence, he might attain the highest positions, and that the private soldier might become a general.”

“That is the very thing by which the aristocratic officers of the old regime became intensely exasperated against your new system,” said Blucher. “I know what you had to suffer and contend against, how many stumbling-blocks were cast in your way, and how they charged you with being an innovator, and even a republican, trying to transfer the liberty, equality, and fraternity of the French sans-culottes into the Prussian army, and to put generals’ epaulets into the knapsack of the low-born recruit. But all these arrows glanced off from your dear head, which was as hard as a golden anvil, and they were unable to prevent Scharnhorst from becoming the armorer of German liberty!”

“But his head has received many a blow,” said Scharnhorst, smiling. “However, he who wages war must expect to be wounded, and it was a terrible war upon which I entered–one against prejudice and old established customs–against the rights and privileges of the aristocracy. God was with me and gave me strength to complete my work; He gave me, in Blucher, a friend who never refused me his advice, and, to whose sagacity and courage I am indebted for one- half of what I have achieved. Without your aid I would often have given way; but it strengthened me to think of you, and your applause was a reward for my labors. May we soon be enabled to carry into effect the new organization of the army!”

“My friend,” said Blucher, shaking his head, “God has forgotten us, I fear, and averted His eyes from Prussia and the whole of Germany. Napoleon is an instrument in His hands, just as the knout is an instrument of justice in the hand of the Russian executioner. And it seems as though the nations deserved much punishment, for He still holds his instrument firmly in His hands. But patience!–there will be a time when He will cast it aside, and when we shall arise from our prostration to take revenge upon our scourge.”

“Who knows whether this new era will not dawn at an earlier moment than we hope and look for,” said Scharnhorst, smiling.

Blucher started, and cast a quick glance on his guest. “Scharnhorst,” he said, hastily, “you have brought news, after all. I felt it as soon as I saw you, and it is no use to deny it any longer. You know, and want to tell me something. Well, speak out! I am prepared for every thing! What is it? Has Napoleon gained another victory? Has he transported the Emperor Alexander to Siberia, and put the Russian crown on his head at the Kremlin? Have the Russian people prostrated themselves before him, and, like other nations, recognized him as their sovereign and emperor? You see, I am prepared for every thing; for I insist upon it, how high soever he may build his throne, he must at last descend, and it will be I who will bring him down. Now, speak out! Has he again obtained a great victory?”

“No, general,” said Scharnhorst, solemnly, “God has obtained a victory!”

Blucher raised his head, and laid his clay pipe slowly on the table. “What do you mean, general?” he asked. “What do you mean by saying, ‘God has obtained a victory’?”

“I mean to say that He has sent into the field troops whom even Napoleon is unable to defeat.”

“What troops do you refer to?”

“I refer to the cold, the snow, the ice, the howling storm blowing from Siberia, like the angry voice of Heaven, striking down men and beasts alike.”

“And these troops of God have defeated Napoleon?”

“They have, general!”

Blucher uttered a cry, and, jumping up from his chair, drew himself up to his full height. “The troops of God have defeated Napoleon!” he exclaimed, solemnly. “I have always believed in divine justice– slow sometimes, but sure. Tell me every thing, my friend, tell me every thing,” he added, sinking back into the chair, quite overwhelmed by what he had heard. “Commence at the beginning, for I feel that my joy renders this old head confused, and I must gradually accustom myself to it. Tell me the whole history of the Russian campaign, for it is the preface I ought to read in order to be able to understand the book. And, then, in conclusion, tell me what the good Lord has done, and whether He will now employ His old Blucher. I feel as though an altar-taper had been suddenly lighted in my heart, and as though an organ were playing in my head. I must collect my thoughts. Speak, Scharnhorst, for you see this surprising news may make me insane.” He pressed his hands against his temples and drew a deep breath.

His wife hastened to him, and with her soft hand caressed his face, and looked with anxious and tender glances into his wild eyes. “Be calm, Blucher,” she said. “Calm your great, heroic heart, else you shall and must not hear any thing further. General Scharnhorst, I am sure you will not tell him anything as long as he is so agitated.”

“I will be calm,” said Blucher. “You see that I am so already, and that I sit here as still as a lamb. Scharnhorst, tell me, therefore, every thing. I am all attention.”

“And while listening to him, take again your old friend, which has so often comforted you in your afflictions–put your pipe again into your mouth,” said Amelia, handing it to him.

But Blucher refused it, almost indignantly. “No,” he said, “one does not smoke at church, nor when the Lord speaks, and Scharnhorst is about to tell me that the Lord has spoken. While listening to such words, the heart must be devout, and the lips may bless or pray, but they must not hold a pipe. And now speak, Scharnhorst; I am quite calm and prepared for good and bad news.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE OATH.

“Speak,” said Blucher, once more. “I am prepared for every thing. Tell me about Bonaparte in Russia.”

“You know how victoriously and irresistibly Napoleon penetrated with the various columns of his army into the interior of Russia,” said Scharnhorst. “Nothing seemed to have been able to withstand him– nothing powerful enough to arrest his triumphant progress. The Russian generals, as if panic-stricken, retreated farther and farther the deeper Napoleon advanced into the heart of the empire. Neither Kutusoff, nor Wittgenstein, nor Barclay, dared risk the fate of Russia in a decisive battle; even the Emperor Alexander preferred to leave the army and retire to Moscow to wait for the arrival of fresh reenforcements, and render new resources available. Napoleon, in the mean time, advanced still farther, constantly in search of the enemy, whom he was unable to find anywhere, and everywhere meeting another enemy whom he was nowhere able to avoid or conquer. This latter was the Russian climate. The scorching heat, the drenching rains, bred diseases which made more havoc in the ranks of the French than the swords of living enemies would have been able to do. At the same time supplies were wanting, so that the immense host received but scanty and insufficient rations. The soldiers suffered the greatest privations, and the Russian people, incited by their czar and their priests to intense hatred and fanatical fury, escaped with their personal property and their provisions from the villages and the small towns rather than welcome the enemy and open to him their houses in compulsory hospitality. The French army, reduced by sickness, privations, and hunger, to nearly one-half of its original strength, nevertheless continued advancing; it forced an entrance into Smolensk after a bloody struggle; after taking a short rest in the ruined, burning, and entirely deserted city, it marched upon Moscow. In front of this ancient capital of the czars it met at length on the 7th of September the living enemy it had so long sought. Bagration, Kutusoff, and Barclay, occupied with their army positions in front of it in order to prevent the approaching foe from entering holy Moscow. You know the particulars of the bloody battle on the Moskwa. The Russians and the French fought on this 7th of September for eleven long hours with the most obstinate exasperation, with truly fanatical fury; whole ranks were mowed down like corn under the harvester’s scythe; their generals and chieftains themselves were struck down in the unparalleled struggle; more than seventy thousand killed and wounded covered the battle- field, and yet there were no decisive results. The Russians had only been forced back, but not defeated and routed in such a manner as to stand in need of peace, in order to recover from the terrible consequences of the struggle. To be sure, Napoleon held the battle- field, and, on the 14th of September, made his entry into Moscow, but no messengers came to him from Alexander to sue for peace; no submissive envoys to meet him, as he had been accustomed to see in other conquered cities, and surrender him the keys; the streets were deserted, and no excited crowd appeared either there or at the windows of the houses to witness his entry. The city, whence the inhabitants and authorities had fled, was a vast gaping grave.”

“But the grave soon gave signs of animation,” exclaimed Blucher, excitedly; “the desert was transformed into a sea of fire, and the burning city gave a horrible welcome to the French. The governor of Moscow, Count Rostopchin, intended to greet the entering conqueror with an illumination, and, as he had no torches handy, he set fire to the houses. He removed the stores and supplies, compelled the inhabitants to leave, had the fire-engines concealed, ordered inflammable oils and rosin to be placed everywhere in order to intensify the fury of the conflagration, and then released the convicts that they might set fire to the city. The first house kindled was Rostopchin’s own magnificent palace, close to the gates of Moscow. Well, it is true, Rostopchin acted like a barbarian; but still the man’s character seems grand, and his ferocity that of the lion shaking his mane, and rushing with a roar upon his adversary. To be sure, it was no great military exploit to burn down a large city, but still it was a splendid stratagem, and, in a struggle with a hateful and infamous enemy, all ways and means are permitted and justifiable. I do not merely excuse Rostopchin, but I admire his tremendous energy, and believe, if I were a Russian, I would likewise have done something of the sort. His act compelled the enemy soon to leave, as he could not establish his winter-quarters amid smoking ruins, and to retreat instead of advancing, and obliged the Emperor Alexander to cease his vacillating course–inasmuch as, after the conflagration, further attempts at bringing about a compromise and reconciliation between the belligerents were entirely out of the question.”

“No, general, Rostopchin did not bring this about,” exclaimed Scharnhorst, “but it was our great friend Stein who did it. God Himself sent Minister von Stein to Russia, that he might stand as an immovable rock by the side of the mild and fickle Alexander, and that his fiery soul might strengthen the fluctuating resolutions of the czar, and inspire him with true faith in, and reliance on, the great cause of the freedom of the European nations, which was now to be decided upon the snowy fields of Russia. We owe it to Stein alone that the peace party at the Russian headquarters did not gain the emperor over to their side; we owe it to Stein that Alexander determined to pursue a manly, energetic course; that he refused to allow the diplomatists to interfere, but left the decision to the sword alone, and constantly and proudly rejected all the offers of peace which Napoleon now began to make to him. And Stein found a new ally in the climate uniting with him in his inexorable hostility to the French. Napoleon felt that he ought not to await the approach of winter at Moscow, and on the 18th of October he left the inhospitable city with the remnants of his army. But winter dogged his steps; winter attached itself as a heavy burden to the feet of his soldiers; it laid itself like lead on their paralyzed brain, and caused the horses, guns, and caissons, to stick fast in the snow and ice. Winter dissolved the French army. Men and beasts perished by cold; discipline and subordination were entirely disregarded; every one thought only of preserving his own life, of appeasing his hunger, and relieving his distress. Piles of corpses and dead horses marked the route of this terrible retreat of the French; and when, on the 9th of November, they entered Smolensk, the whole grand army consisted only of forty thousand armed men, and crowds of stragglers destitute of arms and without discipline.”

“And still this cruel tyrant and heartless braggart, the great Napoleon, dared to boast of his victories, and the splendid condition of his army,” exclaimed Blucher, angrily. “And he sent constantly new bulletins of pretended victories into the world, and the stupid Germans believed them to be true, the supposed successes causing them to tremble. I have read these lying bulletins, and the perusal made me ill. They dwelt on nothing but the victories, the glorious conduct, and the fine condition of the grand army.”

“But now you shall read a new one, friend Blucher,” exclaimed Scharnhorst; “here is the twenty-ninth bulletin, and I will communicate to you also the latest news from the grand army and the great Napoleon, which couriers from Berlin and Dresden brought me last night, and which induced me to set out so early to-day in order to reach my Blucher, and tell him of a new era. Here is the twenty- ninth bulletin, and in it Napoleon dares no longer boast of victories; he almost dares tell the truth.”

“Let me read it!” exclaimed Blucher, impatiently seizing the printed sheet which Scharnhorst handed to him. Gasping with inward emotion, he began to read it, but his hands soon trembled, and the letters swam before his eyes.

“I cannot read it through,” said Blucher, sighing. “There is a storm raging in my heart, and it blows out the light of my eyes. Read the remainder to me, my friend. I have read it to the engagement on the Beresina, where Napoleon says that General Victor gained another victory on the 28th of November.”

“But this victory consisted only in the fact that General Victor, with his twelve thousand men, prevented the Russians from reaching the banks of the Beresina, so that two bridges could be built across it, and that the ragged wretches composing the grand army could reach the opposite side of the river. That passage of the Beresina was a terrible moment, which will never be forgotten by history–a tragedy full of horrors, wretchedness, and despair. Stein’s agents have sent me Russian reports of this event, which contain the most heart-rending and revolting details. Books will be written to depict the dreadful scenes of that day; but neither historians, nor painters, nor poets, will find words or colors to portray those unparalleled horrors.”

“And does he describe those scenes in his bulletin?” asked Blucher. “Read me its conclusion. Does he allude to those horrors of the Beresina?”

“No, general; he speaks only of the victory and the passage across the river, and then continues: ‘On the following day, the 29th of November, we remained on the battle-field. We had to choose between two routes: the road of Minsk, and that of Wilna. The road of Minsk passes through the middle of a forest and uncultivated morasses; that of Wilna, on the contrary, passes through a very fine part of the country. The army, destitute of cavalry, but poorly provided with ammunition, and terribly exhausted by the fatigues of a fifty days’ march, took with it its sick and wounded, and was anxious to reach its magazines.'”

“That is to say,” exclaimed Blucher, “they died of hunger, and, as he says that they were terribly exhausted by a fifty days’ march, dropped like flies. Oh, it is true, the Emperor Napoleon is very laconic in his account of that retreat, but he who knows how to penetrate the meaning of his few lines cannot fail to receive a deep impression of the wretchedness that unfortunate army had to undergo. Read on, dear Scharnhorst.”

Scharnhorst continued: “‘If it must be admitted that it is necessary for the army to reestablish its discipline, to recover from its long fatigues, to remount its cavalry, artillery, and materiel, it is only the natural result of the events which we have just described. Repose is now, above all, indispensable to the army. The trains and horses are already arriving; the artillery has repaired its losses, but the generals, officers, and soldiers, have suffered intensely by the fatigues and privations of the march. Owing to the loss of their horses, many have lost their baggage; others have been deprived of it by Cossacks lying in ambush. They have captured a great many individuals, such as engineers, geographers, and wounded officers, who marched without the necessary precautions, and exposed themselves to the danger of being taken prisoners rather than quietly march in the midst of the convoys.'”

“And the Cossacks have spared HIM!” exclaimed Blucher, impatiently. “They did not take him prisoner! What is he doing, then, that the Cossacks cannot catch him? Tell me, Scharnhorst–the bulletin, then, does not, like its predecessors, dwell on the heroic exploits of the great emperor? He does not praise himself as he formerly used to do?”

“Oh, he does not fail to do so. Listen to the conclusion: ‘During all these operations the emperor marched constantly in the midst of his guard, the marshal Duke d’Istria commanding the cavalry, and the Duke de Dantzic the infantry. His majesty was content with the excellent spirit manifested by the guard, always ready to march to points where the situation was such that its mere presence sufficed to check the enemy. Our cavalry lost so heavily, that it was difficult to collect officers enough, who were still possessed of horses, to form four companies, each of one hundred and fifty men. In these companies, generals performed the services of captains, and colonels those of non-commissioned officers. The “Sacred Legion,” commanded by the King of Naples and General Grouchy, never lost sight of the emperor during all these operations. The health of his majesty never was better.'” [Footnote: Fain, “Manuscrit de 1812.”]

“And he dares to proclaim that!” exclaimed Blucher, indignantly. “His army is dying of hunger and cold, and he proclaims to the world, as if in mockery, that his health never was better! It is his fault that hundreds of thousands are perishing in the most heart- rending manner, and he boasts of his extraordinary good health! He must have a stone in his breast instead of a heart; otherwise, a general whose army is perishing under his eyes cannot be in extraordinary good health. He will be punished for it, and will not always feel so well.”

“He has already been punished, my friend,” said Scharnhorst, solemnly. “It has pleased God to chastise the arrogant tyrant and to bow his proud head to the dust.”

Blucher jumped up, and a deep pallor overspread his cheeks. “He has been punished?” he asked, breathlessly. “Napoleon in the dust! What is it? Speak quickly, Scharnhorst; speak, if you do not want me to die! What has happened?”

“He has left his army, and secretly fled from Russia!”

Blucher uttered a cry, and, without a word, rushed toward the door. Scharnhorst and Amelia hastened after him and kept him back.

“What do you wish to do?” asked Scharnhorst.

“I wish to pursue him!” exclaimed Blucher, vainly trying to disengage himself from the hands of his wife and the general. “Let me go–do not detain me! I must pursue him–I must take him prisoner! If he has fled from his army, he must return to France, and if he wants to return to France, he must pass through Germany. Let me go! He must not be permitted to escape from Germany!”

“But he has already escaped,” said Scharnhorst, smiling.

“What! Passed through Germany?” asked Blucher. “And no one has tried to arrest him?”

“No one knew that he was there. He left his army on the 6th of December; attended only by Caulaincourt and his Mameluke Roustan, recognized by no one, expected by no one, he sped in fabulous haste in an unpretending sleigh through the whole of Poland and Prussia. Only after he set out was it known at the places where he stopped that he had been there. He travelled as swiftly as the storm. On the 6th of December he was at Wilna, on the 10th of December at Warsaw, and in the night of the 14th of December suddenly a plain sleigh stopped in front of the residence of M. Serra, French ambassador at Dresden: two footmen were seated on the box, and in the sleigh itself there were two gentlemen, wrapped in furred robes, and so much benumbed by the cold that they had to be lifted out. These two gentlemen were the Emperor Napoleon and Caulaincourt. Napoleon had an interview with the King of Saxony the same night, and, continuing his journey, reached Erfurt on the 15th, and–“

“And to-day is already the 17th of December,” said Blucher, sighing; “he will, therefore, be beyond the Rhine. And I must allow him to escape! I am unable to detain him! Oh, that the little satisfaction had been granted me of capturing Napoleon! Well, it has been decreed that this should not be; but one thing at least is settled. Napoleon has been deserted by his former good luck; Dame Fortune, who always was seated in his triumphal car, has alighted from it, and now we may hope to see her soon restored to her old place on the top of the Brandenburg gate at Berlin. Hurrah, my friend! we are going to rise; I feel it in my bones, and the time has come when old Blucher will again be permitted to be a man, and will no longer be required to draw his nightcap over his ears.”

“Yes, the time has come when Prussia needs her valiant Blucher,” said Scharnhorst, tenderly laying his arm on Blucher’s. “Now raise your head, general–now prepare for action, for Blucher must henceforth be ready at a moment’s notice to obey the call of Prussia, and place himself at the head of her brave sons, who are so eager for the fray.”

“Yes, yes, we shall have war now,” exclaimed Blucher. “Soon the drums will roll, and the cannon boom–soon Blucher will no longer be a childish and decrepit old man whom wiseacres think they can mock and laugh at–soon Blucher will once more be a man who, sword in hand, will shout to his troops, ‘Forward!–charge the enemy!’ Great Heaven, Scharnhorst, and I have not even dressed becomingly–I still wear a miserable civilian’s coat! Suppose war should break out to- day, and they should come and call me to the army? Why, Blucher would have to hang his head in shame, and acknowledge that he was not ready!–John! John!–my uniform! Come to my bedroom, John! I want to dress!–to put on my uniform!”

Fifteen minutes afterward Blucher returned to the sitting-room, where his wife was gayly chatting with Scharnhorst. He was not now the sick, suffering old man whom we saw this morning sitting on the easy-chair at the window, but he was once more a fiery soldier and a hero. His head was proudly erect, his eyes were flashing, a proud smile was playing round his lips; his broad-shouldered form was clothed in the uniform of a Prussian general; orders were glittering on his breast, and the long rattling sword hung at his left side.

Blucher approached his wife and General Scharnhorst with dignified steps, and, giving his hands to both, said in a grave and solemn voice, “The time for delay, impatience, and folly, is past. With this uniform I have become a new man. I am no longer an impatient septuagenarian, cursing and killing flies on the wall because he has no one else on whom to vent his wrath; but I am a soldier standing composedly at his post, and waiting for the hour when he will be able to destroy his enemy. Come, my friends,–come with me!”

He drew the two with him, and walked so rapidly through the rooms that they were scarcely able to accompany him. They entered the large reception-room, opened only on festive occasions. It contained nothing but some tinselled furniture, a few tables with marble tops, and on the pillars between the windows large Venetian mirrors. Otherwise the walls were bare, except over the sofa, where hung, in a finely-carved and gilded frame, a painting, which however was covered with a large veil of black crape.

Blucher conducted the two to this painting; for a moment he stood still and gazed on it gravely and musingly, and, raising his right hand with a quick jerk, he tore down the mourning-veil.

“Queen Louisa!” exclaimed Scharnhorst, admiring the tall and beautiful lady smiling on him. “Yes,” said Blucher, solemnly, “Queen Louisa! The guardian angel of Prussia, whose heart Napoleon broke! This pride and joy of all our women had to depart without hoping even in the possibility that the calamities which ruined her might come to an end. On the day she died I covered her portrait with this veil, and swore not to look again at her adored countenance until able to draw my sword, and, with Prussia’s soldiers, avenge her untimely death. The time has come! Louisa, rise again from your grave, open once more your beautiful eyes, for daylight is at hand, and our night is ended. Now, my beautiful queen, listen to the oath of your most faithful servant!” He drew his sword, and, raising it up to the painting, exclaimed: “Here is my sword! When I sheathed it last, I wept, for I was to be an invalid, and should no longer wield it; I was to sit here in idleness, and silently witness the sufferings of my fatherland. But now I shall soon be called into service, and I swear to you, Queen Louisa, that I will not sheathe this sword before I have avenged your death, before Germany and Prussia are free again, and Napoleon has received his punishment. I swear it to you, as sure as I am old Blucher, and have seen the tears which Prussia’s disgrace has often wrung from your eyes. May God help me! may He in His mercy spare me until I have fulfilled my oath! Amen!”

“Amen!” repeated Scharnhorst and Amelia, looking up to the portrait.

“Amen!” said Blucher again. “And now, Amelia,” he added, quickly, “come and give me a kiss, and, by this kiss, consecrate your warrior, that he may deliver Germany and overthrow Napoleon. For Napoleon must now be hurled from the throne!”

CHANCELLOR VON HARDENBERG.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER.

It was on the 4th of January, 1813. The brilliant official festivities with which the beginning of a new year had been celebrated, were at an end, and, the ceremonious dinner-parties being over, one was again at liberty to indulge in the enjoyment of familiar suppers, where more attention was paid to the flavor of choice wines and delicacies than to official toasts and political speeches. Marshal Augereau gave at Berlin on this day one of those pleasant little entertainments to his favored friends, to indemnify them, as it were, for the great gala dinner of a hundred covers, given by him on the 1st of January, as official representative of the Emperor Napoleon.

To-day the supper was served in the small, cozy saloon, and it was but a petit comite that assembled round the table in the middle of the room. This comite consisted only of five gentlemen, with pleasant, smiling faces, in gorgeous, profusely-embroidered uniforms, on the left sides of which many glittering orders indicated the high rank of the small company. There was, in the first place, Marshal Augereau, governor of Berlin, once so furious a republican that he threatened with death all the members of his division who would address any one with “monsieur,” or “madame”–now the most ardent imperialist, and an admirer of the Emperor Napoleon. The gentleman by his side, with the short, corpulent figure and aristocratic countenance, from which a smile never disappeared, was the chancellor of state and prime minister of King Frederick William III, Baron von Hardenberg. He was just engaged in an eager conversation with his neighbor, Count Narbonne, the faithless renegade and former adherent of the Bourbons, who had but lately deserted to Napoleon’s camp, and allowed himself to be used by the emperor on various diplomatic missions. Next to him sat Prince Hatzfeld, the man on whom, in 1807, Napoleon’s anger had fallen, and who would have been shot as a “traitor” if the impassioned intercession of his wife had not succeeded in softening the emperor, and thus saving her husband’s life. Near him, and closing the circle, sat Count St. Marsan, Napoleon’s ambassador at the court of Prussia.

These five gentlemen had already been at the table for several hours, and were now in that comfortable and agreeable mood which epicures feel when they have found the numerous courses palatable and piquant, the Hock sufficiently cold, the Burgundy sufficiently warm, the oysters fresh, and the truffles well-flavored. They had got as far as the roast; the pheasants, with their delicate sauce, filled the room with an appetizing odor, and the corks of the champagne-bottles gave loud reports, as if by way of salute fired in honor of the triumphant entry of Pleasure.

Marshal Augereau raised his glass. “I drink this in honor of our emperor!” he exclaimed, in an enthusiastic tone. The gentlemen touched each other’s glasses, and the three representatives of France then emptied theirs at one draught. Prince Hatzfeld followed their example, but Baron von Hardenberg only touched the brim of his glass with his lips, and put it down again.

“Your excellency does not drink?” asked Augereau. “Then you are not in earnest?”

“Yes, marshal, I am in earnest,” said Hardenberg, smiling, “but you used a word which prevented me from emptying my glass. You said, ‘In honor of OUR emperor!’ Now, I am the devoted and, I may well say, faithful servant of my master, King Frederick William, and therefore I cannot call the great Napoleon my emperor.”

“Oh, I used a wrong expression,” exclaimed Augereau, hastily. “Let us fill our glasses anew, and drink this time ‘the health of the great emperor Napoleon!'” he touched glasses with the chancellor of state, and then fixed his keen eyes upon the minister.

Baron von Hardenberg raised the glass to his lips, but then withdrew it again, and, bowing smilingly to Marshal Augereau, said: “Permit me, marshal, to add something to your toast. Let us drink ‘the health of the great emperor, and a long and prosperous alliance with Prussia!'”

“‘And a long and prosperous alliance with Prussia,'” repeated the four gentlemen, emptying their glasses, and resuming their chairs.

“We have just drunk to the success of our divulged secret,” said Prince Hatzfeld, smiling. “For I suppose, your excellency,” turning to Baron von Hardenberg, “this new happy alliance between Prussia and France is now not much of a secret?”

“I hope it will soon be no secret at all,” said Hardenberg. “Prussia has received the proposition of France with heartfelt joy, and will hail the marriage of her crown prince Frederick William as the happiest guaranty of an indissoluble union. Only the crown prince is too young as yet to marry, and at the present time, at least, allusions to the happiness of his future should be avoided. His thoughts should belong only to God and religion, for you know, gentlemen, that the crown prince will be solemnly confirmed in the course of a few days. Only after he has pledged his soul to God will it be time for him to pledge his heart to love; only then communications will be made to him as to the brilliant future that is opening for him, and, no doubt, he will, like the king, be ready to bind even more firmly the ties uniting Prussia with France. He will be proud to receive for a consort a princess of the house of Napoleon, for such a marriage will render him a relative of the greatest prince of his century!”

“Of a prince whom Heaven loves above all others, as it lavishes upon him greater prosperity than upon others,” exclaimed Prince Hatzfeld, emphatically. “God’s love is visibly with him, and protects His favorite. Who but he would have been able to overcome the terrible dangers of the Russian campaign, and, with an eagle’s flight, return to France from the snowy deserts of Russia, without losing a single plume of his wings?”

“It is true,” responded Augereau, thoughtfully. “Fortune, or, if you prefer, Providence, is with the emperor; it protects him in all dangers, and allows him to issue victoriously from all storms. In Russia he was in danger of ruining his glory and his army, but the battle of Borodino, and still more that on the banks of the Beresina, saved his laurels. The emperor travelled deserted roads, without an escort or protection, through Poland and Germany, in order to return to France. If he had been recognized, perhaps it might have entered the heads of some enthusiasts to attack and capture him on his solitary journey; but the eyes of his enemies seemed to have been blinded. The emperor was not recognized, and appeared suddenly in Paris, where the greatest excitement, consternation, and confusion, were prevailing at that moment. For Paris had just then been profoundly moved by the deplorable conspiracy of General Mallet, and the Parisians were asking each other in dismay whether General Mallet might not have been right after all in announcing that Napoleon was dead, and whether his death was not kept a secret merely from motives of policy. Suddenly Napoleon appeared in the streets of Paris. All rushed out to behold the emperor, or touch his horse, body, hands, or feet, to look into his eyes, to hear his voice, and satisfy themselves that it was really Napoleon–not an apparition. Their cheers rang, and, in their happiness at seeing him again in their midst, they pardoned him for having left their sons and brothers, fathers and husbands, as frozen corpses on the plains of Russia. Never before had Napoleon enjoyed a greater triumph as on the day of his return from the Russian campaign. Fortune is the goddess chained to the emperor’s triumphal car, and the nations therefore would act very foolishly if they dared rise against him.”

“Happily, they have given up all such schemes,” said Hardenberg, smiling, and quietly cutting the pheasant’s wing on his silver plate. “They are asking and longing only for peace in order to dress their wounds, cultivate their fields, and peaceably reap the harvest.”

“And the word of the Emperor Napoleon is a pledge to nations that they shall be enabled to do so,” exclaimed St. Marsan. “He wants peace, and is ready to make every sacrifice to conclude and maintain it.”

“The German princes, of course, will joyously offer him their hands for that purpose,” said Hardenberg, bowing his head. “In truth, I could not say at what point of Germany war could break out at this juncture. The princes of the German Confederation of the Rhine have long since acknowledged the Emperor of the French as their master, and themselves as his obedient vassals. Powerful Austria has allied herself with France by the ties of a marriage, and the hands of Maria Louisa and Napoleon are stretched out in blessing over the two countries. Poor Prussia has not only proved her fidelity as an ally of France, but is now, forgetful of all her former humiliations, ready to consent to a marriage of her future king with a Napoleonic princess. Whence, then, could come a cause for a new war between France and Germany? We shall have peace, doubtless–a long and durable peace!”

“And that will be very fortunate,” said Count Narbonne, “for then it will no longer be necessary for us to allow miserable politics to poison our suppers. ‘Politics,’ said my great royal patron, King Louis XVI, the worthy uncle of the Emperor Napoleon, ‘politics know nothing of the culinary art; they spoil all dishes, and care, therefore, ought to be taken not to allow them to enter the kitchen or the dining-room. One must not admit them even directly after eating, for they interfere with digestion; only during the morning hours should audiences be given to them, for then they may serve as Spanish pepper, imparting a flavor to one’s breakfast.’ That was a very sagacious remark; I feel it at this moment when you so cruelly sprinkle politics over this splendid pheasant.”

“You are right,” exclaimed Hardenberg, laughing, “I therefore beg your excellency’s pardon; for Spanish pepper, which is very palatable in Cumberland sauce, and a few other dishes, is surely entirely out of place when mixed with French truffles.”

“Unhappy man,” exclaimed Narbonne, with ludicrous pathos, “you are again talking politics, and moreover of the worst sort!”

“How so?” asked Count St. Marsan. “What displeases you in the remarks of Minister von Hardenberg?”

“Well, did you not notice that his excellency alluded to our unsuccessful efforts in Spain? Spanish pepper, he said, is surely entirely out of place when mixed with French truffles, but very palatable in English sauces. That is to say, Spain and England are good allies, and Spain and France will never be reconciled. And it is true, it is a mortal war which Spain is waging against us, and unfortunately one which, offers us but few chances of success. The Spaniards contest every inch of ground with the most dogged obstinacy, and they have found very valuable auxiliaries in Lord Wellington and his English troops. They–“

“Ah, my dear count,” exclaimed Marshal Augereau, smiling, “now it is you who talk politics, and it behooves you no longer to accuse us.”

“You are right, and I beg your pardon,” said Narbonne; “but you see how true the old proverb proves: ‘Bad examples spoil good manners.’ Let us talk no longer about pepper, but truffles. Just compare this truffle from Perigord with the Italian truffle at the entremets, and you will have to admit that our Perigord truffle is in every respect superior to the latter. It is more savory and piquant. There can be no doubt of it that Perigord furnishes the most palatable fruit to the world.”

“What fruit do you allude to?” asked Hardenberg, smiling. “Do you refer to the Perigord truffle, or to the Abbot of Perigord, the great Talleyrand?”

“I see you are lost beyond redemption,” said Narbonne, sighing, while the other gentlemen burst into laughter. “Even in the face of a truffle you still dare to amuse yourself with political puns, and confound intentionally an abbot with a truffle! Oh, what a blasphemy against the finest of all fruits–I allude, of course, to the truffle–oh, it is treason committed–“

Just then the door of the saloon was hastily opened, and the first secretary of the French embassy entered the room.

“What, sir!” shouted Count St. Marsan to him, “you come to disturb me here? Some important event, then, has taken place?”

The secretary approached him hurriedly. “Yes, your excellency,” he said, “highly important and urgent dispatches have arrived. They come from the army, and an aide-de-camp of Marshal Macdonald is their bearer. He has travelled night and day to reach your excellency at an earlier moment than the courier whom General von York no doubt has sent to the King of Prussia. Here are the dispatches which the aide-de-camp of the marshal has brought for you, and which he says ought immediately to be read by your excellency.” He handed the count a large sealed letter, which the latter eagerly accepted and at once opened.

A profound silence now reigned in the small saloon. The faces of the boon companions at the table had grown grave, and all fixed their eyes with an anxious and searching expression upon the countenance of Count St. Marsan. He read the dispatch at first with a calm and indifferent air, but suddenly his features assumed an expression of astonishment–nay, of anger, and a gloomy cloud covered his brow.

“All right,” he then said, turning to the secretary. “Return to the legation. I will follow you in a few minutes.” The secretary bowed and withdrew. The five gentlemen were again alone.

“Well,” asked Marshal Augereau, “were the dispatches really important?”

Count St. Marsan made no immediate reply. He looked slowly around the circle of his companions, and fixed his eyes with a piercing expression on the countenance of Chancellor von Hardenberg. “Yes,” he said, “they contain highly important news, and I wonder if his excellency the chancellor of state has not yet received them, for the dispatches concern above all the Prussian army.”

“But I pledge your excellency my word of honor that I do not know what you refer to,” said Hardenberg, gravely. “I have received no courier and no startling news from the Prussian army.”

“Well, then,” said St. Marsan, bowing, “permit me to communicate it to you. General York, commander of the Prussian troops belonging to the forces of Marshal Macdonald, has refused to obey the marshal’s orders. He has gone even further than that, concluding a treaty with Russia, with the enemy of France and Prussia; and signed at Tauroggen, with the Russian General von Diebitsch, a convention by virtue of which he severs his connection with the French army, and, with the consent of Russia, declares that the Prussian corps henceforth will be neutral.”

“But this impossible,” exclaimed Hardenberg, “he would not dare any thing of the kind; he would not violate in so flagrant a manner the orders given him by his king!”

“But he did so,” said Augereau, “and if your excellency should have any doubts as to the truth of what Count St. Marsan said, here is the autograph letter in which General von York informs Marshal Macdonald of his defection; and, besides, another letter in which